


Just Cry

by Penthesilea1623



Series: Battle Maiden [5]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Bad Dreams, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, bad memories, some mentions of past violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 07:22:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16849645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penthesilea1623/pseuds/Penthesilea1623
Summary: Nell Cousland hasn't spoken about what happened at Highever Castle that night, not to anyone. When she wakes up from a particularly brutal nightmare about it she stumbles out of her tent, it's Alistair she looks for.





	Just Cry

Sleeping next to Alistair by the campfire quickly becomes a habit, and Nell’s not quite sure what that means.

It started almost accidentally, when she’d had a nightmare about the night Howe attacked, and stumbled out of her tent needing light and air and somebody to be near, anybody. That it was Alistair that was on watch was a blessing she realized later. 

Leliana would have been sympathetic but would have invoked the Maker’s name a few to many times for Nell’s comfort. 

Zevran would have suggested sex to banish the memories and though it would have made her laugh (and she would have turned him down) it wouldn’t have helped, and it certainly wouldn’t have banished the memories. 

Wynne would probably have come up with some story or allegory about parents or loss or bad dreams that wouldn’t have helped at all with the fact that she was scared and lonely and missed her home and her family more than she had ever thought possible. 

Sten wouldn’t have said anything, but she would have been able to feel the disappointment rolling off him in waves at what he would no doubt perceive as a womanly weakness and yet another reason women shouldn’t be warriors or leaders. 

But Alistair…

From the very first time she’d stumbled out of her tent, bathed in a cold sweat, trembling and vaguely nauseous from the reminders of screams and blood and dead bodies, both real and imagined he’d offered an ear if she wanted to talk, idle commentary and stories if she just wanted to listen, or quiet companionship if she didn’t want to do either, but most of all when she’s with him there’s absolutely no pressure to be anything but herself, and no judgment about being strong or weak. 

And sometimes when he thinks she’s fallen asleep he’ll reach out a hand and gently stroke her hair or her back, only lately she’s pretty sure he knows that she’s not asleep and he does it anyway. 

And then one night she stumbles out after a particularly horrible nightmare and finds it’s Sten on watch, not Alistair, and she doesn’t even hesitate, just turns and goes to his tent, pushing aside the flap and crawling in. 

“Alistair.” She whispers.

He doesn’t answer.

 _Oh please wake up, please._ “Alistair.” She says it louder, and her voice cracks, and she’s afraid she’s going to start crying right there if he doesn’t wake up and distract her from the pictures in her head. She doesn’t know if it’s the darkness of the tent or the particularly vile dream, but she can’t stop the images this time and she’s starting to actually shake. She tries to say his name again, but now she actually is crying and all that comes out is a harsh sob.

And for some reason that wakes him up. He sits upright, and the blanket that was covering him falls, revealing he’s not wearing a shirt. She can see the necklace he wears from his joining. She doesn’t wear hers, just keeps it in her pack. She doesn’t feel any affinity for these wardens and if she’s going to wear anything to remember those who went before us it would be something for her parents or Oren or Oriana, or Nan, or any of the hundreds who must have died that night, too many to list but few enough that she can see every face. 

Alistair squints into the darkness. “Nell?” 

She can’t even answer now, not without sobbing, and she can’t do that, so she doesn’t say anything. 

Luckily for her once his eyes adjust to the darkness he can easily figure out what the problem is. “Bad dream?” 

All she can is nod. Tears are streaming down her face.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, the way he does every time.

She starts to shake her head to say no, but suddenly she does, suddenly she doesn’t think she can keep it in for a minute longer, but she still doesn’t know how to let it out and she’s afraid to speak or move or even breathe. All she can do is stare at him.

Alistair is starting to look a little alarmed and she can’t say she blames him. “I’m getting Wynne.” He mutters and pushes aside his covers. 

That makes her breathe again. “No!” She manages to gasp out. She grabs his arm.

He stops and looks at her expectantly. 

She tries to think of how to even begin and she can’t. It just a series of images: Oren’s broken body, Oriana’s tossed on the ground beside him, her throat slit. Aldous, dear Aldous, his robes soaked with blood. The expression on Roderick Gilmore's face when he looked at her before running to hold the gates against Howe’s men. Nan, lying on the floor of the kitchen her skull strangely misshapen from a mace or the hilt of a sword. And her father, his face grey with pain, or blood loss, lying in an ever expanding crimson circle, her mother beside him holding him in her arms telling her to live as Duncan all but pushed her out the hidden entrance. 

The tears are streaming down her face now and she still can’t think of how to start. She looks beseechingly at Alistair as if he’ll know what to do.

And strangely he does, reaching over and pulling her half into his lap and holding her close, wrapping those massive arms around her. “Cry, Nell.” He tells her. “Just cry.”

And she does. Maker, does she cry. She doesn’t know for how long, but it feels like hours and Alistair just holds her through all of it, occasionally wiping at her face with what she thinks is his shirt. Finally she stops, feeling strangely numb, physically and mentally. He strokes her hair and says softly, “Tell me what happened.” And somehow because he didn’t make it a question this time, she can.

The story pours out of her, everything, every image that’s been haunting her for weeks now. He doesn’t say anything, or offer any platitudes, or even make sympathetic noises. He’s just there listening as she leans against his chest listening to the steady beat of his heart and he feels as solid and dependable as a stone wall, something she can shelter in or against.

When she finishes speaking, he says simply. “Howe will pay, Howe and Loghain and all the others. We’ll make sure of it.” 

And because he made her a part of it she believes him. “Yes.” She agrees. And then maybe she can live the way her mother wanted her to.

He looks down at her. “You think you can sleep now?”

She hesitates. “Could I stay here?” She feels him tense up. “I promise, I’m in no state to ravish you.” She says, trying to reassure him. She doesn’t want to leave him. For the first time since that night she feels safe, and she doesn’t think it’s that she finally cried or finally talked about it, she thinks it’s the warmth of the chest she’s leaning against, and the strength of those arms, but most of all it’s him, Alistair, who in spite of the faults he might have, possesses probably the kindest heart she’s ever encountered. When he still doesn’t answer she adds a soft. “Please.”

And that’s all it takes. “Sure.” He says, and she knows he’s trying to be nonchalant about it. “You don’t snore or steal the covers, do you?”

She actually laughs which she thinks surprises them both. “Not that I’ve ever been told.” 

“Right. First sign of either and you’re back in your own tent.” He warns. He takes his arm from around her and tries to straighten out his bedding. “I’ve only got the one pillow. We could flip a coin for it I suppose.” 

“You can have it, if I can borrow your chest for the night.” She offers. 

He looks completely perplexed. 

“As a pillow.” She explains. 

He grins suddenly. “Just like all the rest. Only want me for my body.”

“And only your chest at that.” She says, amazed to find that she’s joking.

“Typical.” He says, sliding under the covers. He looks up at her. “Well come on. You might not, but some of us do need our beauty sleep.”

He holds up the covers so she can slide beneath them. She climbs in and after some small awkwardness of where arms and hands go she’s settled with her head on his shoulder and her hand resting just over his heart: the steady thump is comforting. His arm is around her resting on her shoulder, but he keeps moving it as if that’s not quite comfortable. 

She’s already half asleep. “My waist.” She suggests.

He tenses up again. “Sorry?”

She doesn’t repeat herself, just reaches up and moves his hand so it’s resting on her waist. She strokes it once and then puts her hand back where it was, feeling for and finding that heartbeat again. 

She’s almost asleep when she hears him say softly. “This is nice.”

Her mouth curves into a smile. “Mmm.” She agrees. She knows she should say more, should thank him or something but she’s just too tired. Instead she turns her head and places a gentle kiss on his collarbone, before snuggling against him and finally drifting off. 

Alistair’s thumb strokes along her waist. He’s sleeping with a woman. Maybe not the way he thought he would, or not the way everybody talks about.

He thinks this might actually be better.

**Author's Note:**

> I've got some inspiration photos and such relating to Battle Maiden on my tumblr. You can link directly to them here:  
> [Battle Maiden photo/style references](http://penthesilea1623.tumblr.com/search/battle+maiden)


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